A Common Bond
by The Jew in Gryffindor
Summary: Ten years after Erik faked his own death, once again, he tutors a young alto from Denmark who holds a secret. Read and Review, please.
1. Prologue- Chapitre Un

Prologue– The Paris Opera House 1881  
  
Foolish stable boy. He shouldn't have come seeking things he was not meant to see. The foolish boy sat in the torture room now, having his mind readied to sign his own letter of resignation.  
  
"BOY!"  
  
"Y-yes?" The fool's voice sounded weak. Perfect. This only made it easier.  
  
"Are you ready to sign?"  
  
"Yes, monsieur." The boy was brought out, and tied to a chair. His right hand was unchained and a blank sheet of paper as well as a pen was pushed toward him.  
  
"Go! Write!"  
  
The boy scribbled hastily, writing a letter explaining how he had become engaged and left town to seek employment elsewhere with his new bride. He wrote of how he would miss the opera house, but had to leave quickly so he could elope. The girl already had a suitor and they needed to flee. He signed his name and looked up.  
  
"Am I know free to go, monsieur?"  
  
"It really depends on how you define 'leave', boy." The boy was too weak, his throat too parched, his mind too drained to duck the lasso. Using a hot poker, one side of the boy's face was mangled horribly, and capped with a mask.  
  
After the corpse had been pulled into dress-clothes, it was carried to the stable, left to be found by his own kind. The letter had been sent shortly before.  
  
Erik laughed horribly and went back down into the labyrinth under the opera to await news of his own "death".  
  
10 Years Later, in Copenhagen Denmark  
  
"Tikva, I honestly don't understand what there isn't to like about Benyamin! I mean, first of all, he is the rabbi's son, and second of all, he plans to study at a Yeshiva, and third of all, you are twenty one and it is about high time you got married." Golde Maneshevitz spoke to her daughter in rapid Yiddish as she pinned her dress. For some reason, even with her mouth full of pins, each word was clear, and quite loud.  
  
"Mama," Tikva turned around and tried to look her mother in the face. It was difficult, being as Golde was pinning the hem at the current time. "Mama, what if I don't get married at twenty one? You didn't."  
  
"Yes, and I was living in Paris as a costume designer and it was the worst decision I ever made. Now hold still, I want you to look lovely at your brother's bar mitzvah!"  
  
"Mama, first of all, if you hadn't gone to Paris, you wouldn't have met papa, and second of all, no one is going to be looking at me at Samuel's bar mitzvah.."  
  
"The rabbi's son will be looking!"  
  
"MAMA! I wasn't done yet!"  
  
"How was I to know you weren't done?"  
  
"Normally, when one's mouth is still open, one has yet to still finish speaking."  
  
"How could I see it your mouth was open? I'm still checking to see that the hem is straight! You know, Tikva, this will deep blue will match your eyes beautifully. It will really help set them off against your fair skin and dark hair."  
  
"That's lovely, mama, but I still wasn't done yet."  
  
"Oh." Golde went back down to pinning. "Continue."  
  
"Well, I was thinking of staying in Paris for a while before getting married."  
  
Golde's mouth dropped open. Several pins fell out and bounced a few times against the carpet before being hopelessly lost in the thick pile. "You will do no such thing!"  
  
"But you met papa there, he was playing the oboe and–"  
  
"You will do no such thing."  
  
"YOU DID IT!"  
  
"Yes, Tikva, I did. I did it and I regretted it for the rest of my life. Paris is an evil, evil place, Tikva, a fire should burn it." Golde's eyes grew dark and clouded. "When I lived in Paris, Tikva, they hated the Jews."  
  
"They always hate us, mama! Denmark is one of the few places–"  
  
"I know, Tikva. But it was so bad in Paris, and still is that–"  
  
"That you didn't cover your hair, changed your name and had to wear a cross at least once. I've hear the story mama, I know the evils of Paris."  
  
"Then why do you still want to go?"  
  
"I have to write my book."  
  
"And how do you plan on supporting yourself while you are trying to write a novel in Paris?"  
  
"I will work as an alto at the Paris Opera House. I have already sent letters to the opera house requesting an interview, and have sought out a place to stay. If I remember correctly, mama, it was the same apartment you had."  
  
Her mother's mouth dropped open a second time. "Not, the Paris Opera House, the Paris Opera House?"  
  
"Yes mama, the same Paris Opera House. Papa trained me well."  
  
Golde swelled with pride. "Of course he did. Your father is a wonderful oboe player, a marvelous musician, and a brilliant teacher. It's no wonder his music store is a wonderful success. But, Tikva, I still can't let you go. Why don't you stay in Copenhagen?"  
  
"Because you can't write a novel in COPENHAGEN!"  
  
"Your father and I promised each other, after leaving Paris, pregnant with you, that no offspring of ours would venture there. Paris is too dangerous a place for a young girl."  
  
Avram Maneshevitz was strong man. He was wide, and broad shouldered, with a large lung capacity. It was perfect for playing the oboe, but he also had a deep bass voice. Avram ran a music store, where he sold instruments, sheet music, music books, and gave lessons. Avram had tutored Tikva to give her a beautifully clear alto singing voice, and her brother, Samuel, had been taught to play both the trumpet and the cello. Samuel had just turned thirteen, and his bar mitzvah was this Friday. Currently, it was something that almost everyone in Tikva's little corner of Copenhagen was talking about.  
  
Samuel's bar mitzvah went smoothly and beautifully. Tikva sat in the woman's section of the synagogue as Samuel chanted his torah portion and read the prayers. Avram stood on the bema, beaming at his son, and occasionally looking up at his wife and daughter behind the barred partition.  
  
After the bar mitzvah was a celebration. All though it, however, Tikva worried. She worried about the letters she had sent, and wether she could actually go. But most of all, she worried about the train ticket in her pocket, that called for her to leave in the dead of night. She chose tonight, because she felt everyone would be worn out from Samuel's party, and she figured it would be easiest for her to leave if everyone was a tad bit drunk. She was wearing her blue dress, the one her mother had made her, and since her mother was a dressmaker, she was fine with that. It was a rich, royal blue, that matched her eyes, as her mother had said. Her family was a bit more modern, and her parents had decided that their children wouldn't have to cover their hair until they were married, so Tikva's hair lay down, long, dark brown, and wavy. Usually she straightened it and wove it up into a bun around her head, but in the hustle and bustle of preparing for Samuel that morning, finding his sock, shoes, making sure his talit wasn't wrinkled, making sure his tie was straight, etc. etc., she had been unable to straighten it, and instead just wore it down. She was sitting at the table of honor, talking to one of her friends who had walked over, when none other than the Rabbi and his son decided to pay them a visit.  
  
"You look lovely, dear Tikva." The rabbi was an old man, but was very wise, and much loved. He patted her hand and smiled at her. He was like everyone's grandfather. Indeed, his "son", was actually his grandson, whose parents had been killed in a riot in Germany. Benyamin was small, not very strong, wore glasses, but had an earnest face and was very nice. The thing was, he seemed more of a brother than a husband.  
  
"You do look, erm, lovely, Tikva." He smiled up at her. "The dress really matches your eyes."  
  
"Thank you, Benyamin."  
  
"No, I mean it, it really looks lovely."  
  
"Thank you, Benyamin." She said again, her voice a bit harder this time. Why wouldn't he leave?  
  
"I mean it. It really brings out your eyes."  
  
"I'm sure it does, Benyamin." She was now certain he wasn't going to leave, and truly, the topic of her dress was really starting to bore her. "How do you think my brother did?"  
  
"Oh, Tikva, he did wonderfully." Benyamin sighed wistfully, and Tikva strongly doubted he was thinking about her brother.  
  
"So, Benyamin, when do you leave for the Yeshiva?"  
  
"In a few months. After that, I would like to stay in Zion for a while, but I did wish I could have someone waiting for me."  
  
Tikva took a deep breath. "I'll be waiting for you, Benyamin."  
  
"You will?" He looked so hopeful, she hated to burst his lovely little dream, but she had no choice.  
  
"I'll be waiting for you as a sister waits for a brother."  
  
Benyamin looked crushed. He smiled weakly. "You are so pretty, Tikva."  
  
Tikva shook her head. "No, Benyamin. You will meet other girls, much prettier than I, holier than I, in Zion." Tikva was pretty, but in a very unremarkable way. She had fair skin, and her long dark hair, but her face was not memorable, except for her eyes. Benyamin had been the first, and probably only boy, she figured, to call her pretty, except for her brother, when she was nervous about getting ready this morning. If only he know what she was nervous about.  
  
Benyamin looked into her eyes. "How can you be certain?"  
  
"I'm certain, Benyamin. Entirely certain."  
  
Tikva hung around her friends for the rest of the evening. She kept glancing at the clock, willing the party to end, so she could go home. Her train left at three o'clock in the morning.  
  
Finally, everyone started going home. Tikva and her family left, and went to their apartment above the two stores they owned. Once she was sure her family was asleep, she pulled the bags she had packed from underneath her bed, and took the letters she had written to all her friends from her drawer. She began to creep down to the exit out of her mother's shop.  
  
Her mother was waiting for her. Tears were streaming down Golde's face as she stood in her nightclothes, looking at her daughter.  
  
"I knew you were going to leave."  
  
"Mama, I have to do this."  
  
At this, her mother completely broke down, sobbing quietly into her own hands. "I know. I don't want you to go, but I cannot stop you. I love you too much to let you go, but I love you too much not to let you."  
  
"Mama, can you deliver these letters?" Tikva handed them to her mother and turned to go.  
  
"Yes. Tikva?"  
  
She turned. "Yes, mama?"  
  
"What name will you be using in Paris."  
  
Tikva had decided this a while ago. "Mama, I will use the same surname you and papa used after you married. DuBois. I will be Charlotte DuBois."  
  
"I love you Charlotte. I wish you the best of luck." Golde smiled at her daughter through her tears. "Take this. Don't forget who you are." She pressed something into Tikva's hand. "Don't forget."  
  
And with that, Tikva ran out into the night.  
  
A/N: Thank you to Virtual Phantom's list of French names for all the French names. Thank you to Fiddler on the Roof for some endless cliches, such as the one of the Rabbi's son. Read and Review, if you do so please. 


	2. Chapitre Deux

It wasn't until after she had boarded the train that Tikva, who decided to call herself Tikva until she reached France, decided to see what her mother had given her. From the dim lights on the car, she saw that it was a necklace. A star of David necklace. There was a piece of paper attached to the chain. Tikva turned it over to read it.  
  
"Dearest Tikva,  
  
I do not want you to forget who you are, and what you have left  
  
behind in Denmark. Everyday in Paris, I wore this necklace, hidden, of course,  
  
under my dress, but it provided me with a sense of peace and hope. I wish you,  
  
truly, the best of luck, writing your novel. I never knew you wrote, Tikva. I hope  
  
you succeed, no, I know you will succeed. But please, write me, and your father.  
  
You know he worries.  
  
Your loving mother,  
  
Mama"  
  
Tikva smiled at the last sentence. Many people thought that Avram was overprotective of his only daughter. Tikva removed the note from the chain, folded the note carefully, placed it in her pocket, and slipped the chain around her neck, making sure the star fell close to her heart.  
  
Some people might be wondering why Tikva took a train to Paris instead of a boat, being as she could have much more easily sailed to Paris. The thing is, Tikva hated sailing. The thought of being alone in the middle of water on something that looks like it shouldn't be floating scared her half to death. She much preferred trains, which had wheels, ran across the ground, so if it did stop for some unexpected reason, she could just get off and walk away. If a ship stopped in the middle of the ocean...she shuddered at the thought and began to instead practice her French. The bookseller had been teaching her French as soon as he heard the reason why she wanted to go to Paris.  
  
To go, to be, to sing, to write, the verbs danced through Tikva's head through the long train ride, causing her to think of little else. A handsome blonde haired man across the aisle may have been flirting with her, or may have been calling her an ugly dog, Tikva didn't know. She couldn't understand a word he said, for he was speaking rapid English, a language Tikva didn't understand. She tried to explain that to him, by shaking her head and asking him if he understood various other languages, but he just sputtered on. Finally Tikva gave up and went back to practicing her french verbs. She was probably never going to see this man again.  
  
The train rolled into the station and came to a screeching halt. Tikva rubbed her back and wondered if she would ever be able to walk again. Then she remembered. She was no longer Tikva now, was she. She was Charlotte. Charlotte rubbed her back and wondered if she would ever be able to walk again. She was about to say "oy vey!" meaning "oh pain!", but then realized what might come of her words and said instead, "oh, my back hurts terribly!" in French, with a hint of a Danish accent. Which was the effect she intended. She didn't care if they knew she was Danish, that was all fine and well with her, it was if they found out she was Jewish that her goose was cooked. Frace, as she had been taught, was notoriously spiteful toward the Jews for no good reason, and Charlotte decided she didn't really want to even know what that reason was.  
  
"May I help you with your bags, Mlle?" The handsome blonde haired man asked her, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. His hair was curly and unruly, as though it had been ruffled by the wind, and his face tanned, as if he had lived by a warm sea, where he would often walk out across the rocks and let the sun beat down on his....she was fantasizing.  
  
"You could understand me all along, monsieur?"  
  
He didn't speak, but instead nodded his boyish face up and down grinning like he had discovered a huge diamond. He took her bag down from the rack and held it in his strong arms. He was very muscular too, she noted.  
  
"Then why didn't you say you spoke French?"  
  
He smile grew even more. "Because I found it amusing to watch you speak all those languages. What was the last one you tried? French, Danish..."  
  
The last one was Yiddish. Why had she tried Yiddish?  
  
"A dialect of German." Yiddish did sound like German, didn't it? "My accent was probably quite terrible, which was why you couldn't tell." She hadn't even stepped off the train and she was already lying.  
  
"May I ask your name, Mlle?"  
  
She blushed. "Charlotte. Charlotte DuBois. And you, good monsieur?"  
  
"Marc." He held out his hand. She took it, warily, and he kissed it. She blushed even more. "Marc Laurent."  
  
"Your name is French, Monsieur Laurent, but your accent certainly is not. Pardon me if I am being too forward, but where do you live?"  
  
"Well, I was born in France, but I went to an English boarding school. Now I go to an English college. I summer in France though, south France, where it is nice and sunny. I'm coming back to stay, but I doubt my English accent is going to leave. You, Mlle DuBois, also have a French name, but, alas, like me, speak with a foreign accent. Where do you come from?"  
  
"Denmark. Copenhagen. My parents used to live in France though. In Paris. They worked for the Opera house."  
  
"Well, isn't that incredible! I'm about to go there."  
  
"Really? So am I! I have an interview."  
  
"As do I." Marc smiled. "I wish to be a dancer."  
  
"I wish to be an alto."  
  
"In the hope of saving some money, Mlle Dubois, do you think that perhaps we could both take a carriage to the Opera, with our bags, audition, then split up? It would be more efficient."  
  
Charlotte knew that his idea had nothing to do with his wanting to save some change. If he was able to travel between England and France every summer, he must not be a pauper, the idea of traveling in a carriage with a strange man scared her, but she didn't want to seem impolite, and he did have her bags, after all. "The idea sounds simply marvelous. What a lucky coincidence, hmm?"  
  
"I do not believe in coincidence, Mlle. I believe in fate." They stepped off the train, Charlotte trailing after the strong man carrying both her bags and his own. Shifting the entire bulk to one arm, after stepping out onto the street, he managed to flag down a carriage, and they both got in.  
  
"So, have you ever been to Paris before?" Marc smiled and turned to Charlotte, waiting for an answer.  
  
"No. I've never been to France in my life." Charlotte smiled, but it was a rather embarrassed smile. She had never really been in such close quarters with such a type of man before.  
  
"Well. How very interesting. You know, for someone whose never been to France, you speak the language very well." Marc shook his head back and forth, causing the curls to bounce away from his eyes.  
  
"You know, Monsieur Laurent, you really need to cut your hair."  
  
"I know. I plan on doing that right after the audition." He ran his hands through his hair. "But until then, I'll just have to live with it." He looked back at her again. "Why do you keep calling me Monsieur Laurent? You make me feel so old! I'm probably not much older than you are, Charlotte. Call me Marc."  
  
Charlotte tried to make herself smaller. "Yes, Monsieur Marc." She said quietly as she moved as far as she could away from him. He was being much too forward. It wasn't polite.  
  
He seemed to have read her mind. "Oh, I'm sorry Mlle DuBois. Am I making you uncomfortable? I'm sorry. I haven't really kept up with the proper manners around women. There are precious few at my college."  
  
"One would assume that, Monsieur. I'm sorry if I seem to be distant or aloof. It just appears, from what I've seen, that Paris is so different from Copenhagen." Or really, the behavior of gentiles was so much more uncouth than that of what she was used too.  
  
"I'm sure it is Mlle. Granted, you haven't really seen that much of Paris." Just as he said this, the carriage pulled to a stop in front of a grand looking building. Marc hopped down and opened the door. He then took Charlotte's hand and helped her out.  
  
"Charlotte, um, Mlle DuBois, welcome to the Paris Opera house. Let me get our bags." He took them down, and held them in his arms as he had done before. It had recently rained, and the streets were muddy. Charlotte lifted the hem of her skirt to keep it from dragging. As mama said, nothing makes a worse impression than a dirty skirt. Trying to remain confident, but shaking inside, because this would dictate wether she could stay in Paris, Charlotte approached the doors of the Opera House.  
  
A/N: Tut tut. Charlotte is just in Paris, and she has already begun lying and getting into carriages with strange, if ruggedly handsome, men. What will happen to her? I know. But you don't. Do you want me to tell you? Then review, if you wish to know what happens to our interesting [I hope] herione! 


	3. Chapitre Trois

Marc rushed ahead of her, shifted the bags once again, and held the door open. "Mlle?" He asked, dripping false charm.  
  
"Thank you, Monsieur Laurent."  
  
He walked in behind her, letting the heavy door shut with a bang that made Charlotte jump.  
  
"So sorry I frightened you, Charlotte. It really wasn't my intention." But he was grinning so widely you knew it was.  
  
"I'm sure it wasn't, Monsieur Laurent." She remarked, sarcastically. Nerves were getting the best of her, and she was getting snappish. "Were you raised in a barn?"  
  
"English boarding school..barn...it's all relative, Mlle."  
  
"Of course." She said, not really listening. She was too busy taking in her surroundings, the grand staircase, the massive chandeliers. She didn't even notice she was wringing her hands until Marc put down their bags and clasped her hands to make them stop.  
  
"Mlle, you appear nervous. How about a story to calm you down."  
  
"A story?" She tugged her hands out of his grip and went back to wringing them.  
  
"Certainly! Have you heard the story of the Opera Ghost?"  
  
At that moment the doors in front of them swung open.  
  
"Monsieur, Mlle, it is a pleasure!" A man stepped out, followed by another. The first man was slightly shorter than the other and had a deep booming voice. He had the appearance of a once robust man gone to seed. "My name is Armand Moncharmin, but you can call me Monsieur Moncharmin if you wish." He chuckled. "No, really, call me Armand. Behind me stands a Monsieur Firmin Richard." He nodded to a taller man who was beginning to grow bald. "He and I are the managers of this opera. And you two are?"  
  
"Marc Laurent!"  
  
"Charlotte DuBois, messieurs." She dipped a curtsy.  
  
"Ah. We have received letters from both of you. Mlle. DuBois, M Laurent, follow us."  
  
Charlotte and Marc walked behind the two men. Charlotte was shaking, and Marc took her hands, this time not to stop them from moving, but to comfort her. She took this as a friendly action, not one of courtship, and let her hands be held and squeezed.  
  
They walked into a comfortable office. A man and a woman were sitting there, sipping water from tall glasses.  
  
"Ah, boys and girls,"Moncharmin remarked, "here is where we split up. M Laurent, please go with Mme Marie Bouville, our ballet mistress, and Mlle DuBois, please go with M Gabriel Reyer, our chorus master."  
  
Gabriel Reyer was a nervous looking man, with graying hair. He stood up when his name was mentioned, and moved behind Charlotte, placing his hand on her shoulder. "This way, Mlle, if you please." He said, very quietly and politely, steering her in the proper direction, through the door and down a few halls.  
  
"Here we are, Mlle." He said, gesturing to a large room holding a piano and many rows of chairs. "The chorus room. I'm sure it's been a long trip. Would you care for something to drink?" He gestured to a pitcher of water which sat on a tray, surrounded by many tall glasses.  
  
"That would be lovely, monsieur." Charlotte smiled and stood as the man poured water into two glasses.  
  
"So, you can have a seat if you please," the chorus master said, pointing at a chair, then pulling another over so he could sit and face her, "So, Monsieur Richard tells me that you are an alto, yes?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Lovely, we need a few altos. You know, many of the women who come in here, claim to be sopranos, but really, I think they are in a terrible state of denial."  
  
Charlotte giggled. "I think all altos experience a bit of soprano envy, if I do say so myself, monsieur. Luckily, I suffered mine when I was six."  
  
Now it was the chorus masters turn to smile. "So I take it you have been studying for a long while then?"  
  
"My father runs a music store, and tutors and teaches. He used to work in this opera, actually, played the oboe more than twenty-one years ago."  
  
"Ah." He took a sip of his water. "That was a bit before my time. I've been working here for about twelve years."  
  
"How very interesting. You must have seen a lot of things come and go."  
  
His eyes suddenly took on a haunted look. "Yes, Mlle. Many, many things." At that he abruptly changed the subject. "Shall you be singing a prepared piece? A duet? In need of accompaniment?"  
  
"I have a prepared piece, thank you for asking." Charlotte finished her water, stood up, and burst into song. She was rushing slightly, she could tell, but managed to reign it in during the ritard. She was also a bit loud, but did try to emphasize the decrescendos, to make it look like she had done it one purpose. She finished, unfortunately a bit too rough for her taste, and sat back down.  
  
Reyer looked up at her, then down at her résumé, letter of recommendation and credentials, then back up at her. Charlotte began wringing her hands again, and stared into the empty glass. She would have poured herself some more water, just to give herself something to do, but figured that would not be polite.  
  
"Well." He said finally, standing up and setting his empty glass on the tray with a loud clink. "Well." He peered down at her, as if trying to look into her very soul. "Well, Mlle DuBois, I welcome you to the Paris Opera house and invite you to fill the position of alto in our chorus ensemble."  
  
She was happy. So incredibly happy that she actually began to cry. Not great racking sobs, but warm tears of life sprang to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. "Oh thank you monsieur!" She exclaimed, wiping absentmindedly at her face with the back of her hand. "You've made me so happy!"  
  
"I'm glad to..erm...see that, Mlle." Gabriel Reyer looked at her uncertainly for a moment, then "would you like to come back to the main office so we can negotiate your contract?"  
  
Still dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, Charlotte signed the contract. It left her with more than enough money to bay her rent, and buy food. She was still crying when she walked back out into the lobby to wait for Marc.  
  
He came in a while later, grinning like a mad fool and saw Charlotte's tear stained face. His grin splintered and cracked like a bad mirror. "Oh, Charlotte, I'm so sorry!"  
  
Charlotte looked at him. "For what?"  
  
"They didn't hire you?"  
  
"They did! I'm crying because I was happy!"  
  
"I thought that was just an expression!"  
  
"Obviously, it wasn't!"  
  
"OH! CHARLOTTE! THEY HIRED ME TOO!" And with that, he picked her up and spun her around. Charlotte, though still a little unnerved, was beginning to understand that this was the way of Marc, and that she would just have to go along with it.  
  
Marc picked up their bags. "Would you like to walk to your apartment? Perhaps I could show you what I know about Paris on the way. It is a lovely day."  
  
And it was, so off they went. Marc carried the bags and narrated as they walked. It was quite pleasant, and they dropped off Charlotte's bags in her room, and Charlotte decided she would accompany Marc, to be polite and to learn more about her surroundings.  
  
It was all going very well until they passed a beggar  
  
"Mlle. Monsieur. Can you spare a franc for me?" Charlotte reached for her purse, but Marc placed his free hand on her arm.  
  
"No." He whispered.  
  
"Why?" She whispered back.  
  
"I'll tell you once we get past him." Marc said and dragged her past the old man. "You can't give him money, Charlotte."  
  
"Why not? He looked hungry."  
  
"He's not hungry for food, Charlotte, he's just hungry for your money. He'll cheat you and swindle you."  
  
"He will?"  
  
"Of course! Couldn't you tell just by looking at him? He's a dirty Jew, Charlotte! You should do your best to stay away from THAT kind. There's just something wrong with them."  
  
"With old men?" Charlotte was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.  
  
"No, poor naive Charlotte. How sheltered Copenhagen must be. You need to be wary of the Jew, Charlotte. He'll try and steal all your money, and you must watch out, when you're older, that he doesn't murder your children in their sleep to use their blood during their Passover services."  
  
Charlotte was almost ready to shout WHAT? at the top of her lungs and take off running, but she remembered she had a part to play. "Oh, how disgraceful!" She said, masking her disgust for Marc as disgust for her own people. She then decided it was best to change the subject. "What do you plan on doing when you get back to your apartment?"  
  
"I plan on celebrating and getting fabulously drunk."  
  
Charlotte laughed, but it was tinny, hollow and forced. It seemed so tainted, somehow.  
  
A/N: Dear () [anonymous reviewer] that was Erik right after Christine left him. He was crazy, and the stable boy had come looking for him, which was why he had killed him. Erik will be much more compassionate in 1891, I promise you.  
  
What Marc says sounds awful and so politically incorrect, but many christians actually did believe that, and during the middle ages, thought Jews had horns and tails, and would try to look for them.  
  
It makes you sick to your stomach, doesn't it? 


	4. Chapitre Quatre

Once she began working, she started to think about her talk with Marc less and less. It was still lurking there, however, and while she did managed to look past it and see that Marc was still a very caring person, it made her nervous.  
  
She had to overlook it, though, in order to play her part both on stage and off. The opera was performing La Boehme, and the dancers, for some reason, were dancing around the singers. Marc had to dance around Charlotte, and she sang her little chorus part to him like he was her lover. Whenever someone is so intimate like that, even if it is only on stage, you have to be comfortable around them. Besides, Marc was very likable, and it was how he was raised. He doesn't know any better. Does he?"  
  
"Alright." Marc was coming up behind her. "Now, let's see, I know you're not a dancer, but if you just lean to the–yes, like that, then I go–yes, like this, how does this look?"  
  
"It looks lovely, M Laurent. You and Mlle DuBois have lovely chemistry." Madame Bouville was sitting in the audience, supervising. "Mlle DuBois, move slightly more to the left." Charlotte did so. "Perfect. You all should look lovely at the opening next week."  
  
Meanwhile, in the main office, Firmin Richard was pacing nervously, waiting for his partner to arrive. He had terrible news, and he hadn't even opened the envelope yet.  
  
Armand Moncharmin rushed in. "So sorry I'm late, Firmin. You know how it is, in the morning, after a long night of trying to win over the patrons. You do not know how much alcohol our patrons can consume in a night." He leaned over his desk and massaged his head. Then he looked up at Firmin as if he had just seen him. "What's wrong Firmin? You look as though you have just seen a ghost!"  
  
"Perhaps I have." He dropped the envelope onto Armand's desk.  
  
"No! But he was dead!"  
  
"Apparently not. But he had us fooled, my dear friend, for ten years."  
  
"Let's just see what he wants this time." Armand reached for the letter, covered with unmistakable handwriting in blood red ink. The handwriting resembled "match heads dipped in ink" and was the unmistakable trademark of the-  
  
"Opera ghost, opera ghost, opera ghost," Firmin sighed as if the Phantom of the Opera were a small child who had been naughty. "Read it, Armand."  
  
Armand cleared his throat and began.  
  
"My dear Sirs,  
  
I write to you after a long absence of ten years. Contrary to popular belief, I am not, and never have been, dead. Dead to the compassion of the world, perhaps, but living on this earth, though at many times I wish I weren't. However, during these ten years when I did not demand my salary, and let your foolish workings go about in peace, I was writing an opera. That opera is now completed. I want one female from your chorus whom I can tutor to play the main role in this complex and difficult piece, Don Juan Triumphant. I do not care how you choose her, random selection, the one you like least, most, however, I can promise you that I can make her her a star. Choose wisely, good monsieurs, and send me a note telling me whom you have selected, and I will send you more information.  
  
Until We Meet Again,  
  
O.G."  
  
"Oh no! No!" Firmin nearly shouted.  
  
"Hush!" Armand hissed. "Do you want them to hear you talking about him? You'll scare all the chorus girls and the dancers."  
  
"So what will we do?"  
  
"Well, we can't send him the best, we need our main soprano. If she gets kidnaped then what will become of us and our opera?!"  
  
"True. True. The worst?"  
  
"No, we can't send him the worst soprano. If she suddenly rises to stardom, then it will seem unbelievable, and make us look like bad teachers."  
  
"Then what do you propose we do?"  
  
"May I have a hat?" The costume designer had been in with the newest bunch of hats. She must have left one by accident. Armand reached over and picked it up. "Go on, write the names of all our women singers."  
  
"I'm one step ahead of you." Firmin Richard was scribbling the names of all the female singers onto small scraps of paper and folding them. He dropped them into the hat, which Moncharmin in turn, folded up, shook, and opened up.  
  
"Close your eyes and reach in your hand, Firmin, it all rests on you know."  
  
"Why must it rest on me?" Richard moaned, but it was more of thinking out loud than complaining.  
  
"Hush Firmin! Just pick already!"  
  
"Fine! Fine!" He finally pulled one out and opened up the small sheet of paper. "Now, let's see whose life will be changed forever..."  
  
"Enough with the drama Firmin! You are taking years off my life with this suspense!"  
  
"A-ha!"  
  
"A-ha?! We have a soprano named A-ha?!"  
  
"No. It's not even a soprano at all."  
  
"It isn't? Oh, forget who it isn't. Just tell me who it is!"  
  
"A Mlle Charlotte DuBois."  
  
"A-ha!"  
  
"So you see?"  
  
"I see exactly. He won't have an soprano this time. He'll have an alto. Which means,"  
  
"If she is kidnaped, it won't be as important!"  
  
"Exactly!"  
  
"Well, we best go send for her." Armand stood up. "We'll let them break for an hour and then we'll call her down. Might as well write a note to the Opera Ghost, Firmin, while I'm gone."  
  
"Great. Just lovely. What am I supposed to say? 'Ha! We're sending you the alto instead!'?"  
  
"No, just fill in her name, age, and let him find the alto part out for himself."  
  
"Is that wise?"  
  
"I don't know. Just please do it, Firmin. My head aches terribly." And Moncharmin walked out before another word could be spoken.  
  
"Who is this Opera Ghost?" Charlotte stood out in the hall with Armand Moncharmin. "And what does he want with me?" Suddenly realizing she was talking one of the managers, she hastily added, "Monsieur Moncharmin."  
  
"The Opera Ghost, Mlle," Armand said, feeling lucky to find someone who didn't know about the secrets of the Opera Ghost, "is quite the musical genius. You are quite lucky to have him tutor you. He wanted someone to help become a star, and we chose you." Ok, so he WAS a serial murderer, and Charlotte wasn't chosen SPECIALLY, but he didn't want to scare the girl. "Now, Firmin has sent out a letter to him, and we will tell you when he replies. Have a nice rest of the day!" And Moncharmin went away, crisis avoided.  
  
"We have another letter." Richard tapped the envelope sitting in front of him.  
  
"Well, let's see it then." Moncharmin picked it up and ripped it open.  
  
"Dear Firmin and Armand,  
  
How lovely that you chose to follow my orders. I await the alto, 21 year old, Mlle Charlotte DuBois. In order to send her to me, to- morrow, I would like her to be taken by Meg Giry to my old box, box five, if you are forgetful, and leave her there. I will take care of things from there. And, messieurs, if, for any chance, she resists or is nervous, give her half the contents of this bottle. They should relax her enough so that there will be no problems. I eagerly await to-morrow and the arrival of my new pupil.  
  
Fondest regards,  
  
O.G.  
  
P.S. As clever as your plan to foil me was, good monsieurs, an alto is perfectly all right. I have not had good experiences with sopranos, and perhaps an alto is exactly what I need."  
  
"How did he know?" Armand was puzzling over it.  
  
"What bottle?" Firmin reached for the envelope, and a small, curiously flat glass bottle fell out. "Oh." He unscrewed the cap and smelt it. "How odd, odorless, colorless, it looks just like water."  
  
"Do you think maybe it is?"  
  
"I doubt it. Why would our dear friend send us just water?"  
  
"It's probably some sort of poison. I wouldn't touch it if I were you."  
  
"But should we give it to her?"  
  
"I suppose. It's what he wants, isn't it? We'll see tomorrow."  
  
The managers didn't get much sleep that night, understandably. However, they did manage to make it to the opera house early, giving them extra time to sort out their troubles.  
  
"Do we give it to her, or do we not give it to her?" Moncharmin swirled the liquid around in the bottle. "I mean, what if it is poison?"  
  
"I really doubt he would send us poison." Richard took a long look at the contents of the bottle. "He said he would make her a star. How could she be a star if she's dead?"  
  
"I guess that's true." At that moment, there was a knock on the door. "Oh! She's here! What do we do? How do we give it to her?"  
  
"Well, it says that if she's nervous to give her half a bottle."  
  
"I would be more that nervous." Moncharmin poured a glass of water half full. "Might as well give her all of it." And he poured the entire bottle into the glass. "Send her in."  
  
Firmin Richard opened the door. "Mlle DuBois?"  
  
Charlotte looked hopeful. "So, am I meeting him here?"  
  
"Well no, we're just going to explain how this is all going to work. A glass of water, Mlle?"  
  
"That would be lovely." Charlotte took the glass and took a big sip. It was very good water. "So, how IS it all going to work?"  
  
"Well, basically, we're going to take you to box five and he will pick you up there."  
  
"Really? How peculiar."  
  
"Well, most geniuses are a little eccentric, Mlle."  
  
Charlotte smiled. "I suppose that's true." She took another swallow. The glass was about half empty by now. "What should I call him? Monsieur Opera Ghost sounds a little, erm, odd."  
  
"I'm sure he'll tell you what to call him when you get there."  
  
"When do I leave?"  
  
"Oh, as soon as Mlle Giry arrives. Please, though, relax, and finish your water."  
  
Charlotte did as she was told. In fact, she wondered if she was a little too relaxed. Her head felt light and the room seemed to be spinning slightly. Perhaps she was just nervous, she told herself, it would pass. There was another knock on the door, but it seemed muffled, somehow.  
  
"That must be Mlle Giry." Moncharmin stood up to get the door.  
  
"Mlle DuBois, are you alright? You look pale." Richard looked into her face.  
  
"No, no, I'm fine. Fine." But her voice was weak.  
  
"Charlotte?" Meg Giry was a dancer. She had been working at the Opera for a long time, and she was quite good. "Charlotte, are you ready to go?" She seemed concerned.  
  
"Oh, yes." Charlotte tried to stand up, but found she couldn't. Armand Moncharmin walked over and helped her up. The moment she stood, she felt as though the room had been turned upside down and almost fell.  
  
"Easy there."  
  
"Is she alright?" Meg Giry looked terribly nervous, was she nervous? Her face was now too blurry for Charlotte to see correctly.  
  
"She's fine, aren't you Charlotte."  
  
"Oh, I'm just a little nervous. It will pass."  
  
"Of course it will. Mlle Giry, if you could just take Mlle DuBois' arm, like so, yes, lovely. Now, can you take her to box five?"  
  
Meg jumped. "Is that wise, Monsieur?" She knew she had to take the girl somewhere, but box five? The private box of the Opera Ghost? She wasn't sure if she wanted to go there.  
  
"It is what he wished, Mlle. And he specially requested you to take her there. I suppose he wants you to follow in the footsteps of your mother." Meg's face fell, but Charlotte was too busy concentrating on making the room stay still to notice. "Anyway, I'm sure he is anxious to meet Charlotte. Hurry along, you two."  
  
Meg nodded and helped Charlotte out the door. "Are you sure you are alright, Charlotte?"  
  
"Honestly, I r-r-really don't knoooow." Charlotte was slurring words and her speech was slowing.  
  
"Mon Dieu! What did they do to you?"  
  
"They o-o-nly gaaave me w-w-wa–."  
  
"Water? I don't think that was water, Charlotte, frankly." Charlotte had nearly collapsed into Meg's arms, and Meg was glad there weren't many stairs left.  
  
"P-p-prob– no–" Charlotte was trying to support herself, really she was, but she was so tired, and the room was past spinning. It was now just a moving blur.  
  
"We're almost there. Just hang on." Charlotte couldn't even see Meg anymore. She just felt something warm holding her up. Charlotte tried to speak.  
  
"I don– mean t-t-t be a bu-bu-burd–"  
  
"You aren't a burden. You were tricked, Charlotte. Fooled. Alright now, we're here. I'll just put you on this chair here."  
  
"Su-u-r–" Charlotte felt herself being laid down across something.  
  
"I'm leaving now, but someone will be back to collect you."  
  
"G-b-y–" And with those words, Charlotte blacked out.  
  
A/N: Ooh, la cliffe! La cliffe! Anyway, read and review, por favor. 


	5. Chapitre Cinq

A/N: If you can't understand a word Charlotte says, there will be a glossary at the bottom. Also, I hope this shows Erik a bit more compassionately.  
  
When she first woke, she had no idea where she was. It was dark, and she was moving. It was only until she heard the ripple of water that she realized she was on a boat. She hated boats. She leaned over the side and was sick. Most unfortunately, she was still disoriented, and was a little messy about the whole business.  
  
"Are you alright?"  
  
Charlotte jumped. It had never occurred to her that the boat wasn't moving by itself. "W-w-ho's there?" She asked, meekly, still leaning over the side of the boat.  
  
"Your new teacher." He replied, his voice deep and soothing.  
  
"Hr Opera S-s-s-pøgelse?" She was too dazed to realize she was speaking Danish.  
  
"Yes, that is I. Now, go to sleep. I'll wake you when we get there."  
  
Charlotte was cold when she woke. It was for two reasons. One, it was terribly chilly down there, and two, she was wearing a white shift that wasn't hers. Even in her still drugged state, she knew that shift was not her own. It was made for a body shorter than hers, and with more of a figure. It was too short, and while it stretched tight across some areas of her block-like figure, in others the dress hung limp, like where her waist should be, and most disappointingly, in the bust. Another thing she realized was that it was terribly dark where she was, and it frightened her.  
  
"G-g-goddag?" She asked warily, still speaking in her native Danish. "T-tat-teh?" She switched to Yiddish. Then back to French. "Is ther an-an- yone her-e?"  
  
She heard footsteps approaching and tried to hide. It was useless, but she wasn't sober enough to realize it. "Mlle Dubois?"  
  
Who was Mlle DuBois? Surely he wasn't talking to her. Who was he, anyway? "Papa?" Her speech was still halting and mismatched.  
  
"I'm not your father, Charlotte, I'm your teacher. Come with me." She was being lifted.  
  
"Who is C-C-C-Char–?"  
  
"You are." There were candles where she was now, and she saw that the man who was holding her was dressed nicely, but he had on a white mask covering part of his face. She would ask him about that later, but first she had to clear up this nonsense about her name.  
  
"My n-n-n-am is-n Ch-a-r."  
  
"Then what is it, then?" He was just humoring her, but she had to tell him.  
  
"Tikva."  
  
"And, why, Tikva, was I told your name was Charlotte?"  
  
"Be-c-caus they a-a-r'n s'p-p-os t' k-k-no!"  
  
"They aren't supposed to know what, Tikva?"  
  
"This." She reached her hand down the front of her shift and fished out her necklace. She waved it slowly in front of his face, before putting it back down and lifting a finger that felt as heavy as lead to her lips. "Shah. T-t-el no-on!"  
  
"I won't tell anyone Tikva. Are you feeling any better?"  
  
"A lit-lit-little. I dun like b-b-oats."  
  
"I'll keep that in mind."  
  
"Wh-wh-why ar yo we-wear-ing tha- mask? I-i-is it a c-c-c-costu- ball?"  
  
"No, it isn't a costume ball, Tikva. You see, we both have a common bond, we both are hiding someone. You hide your true identity with a false name, and I hide my face behind a mask. You still don't seem to be feeling well. I'm assuming the fools that run my opera gave you the whole bottle and didn't tell you to stop when you reached half."  
  
"B-b-bott? Wha– bott?"  
  
"Oh no. What did they give you when you went to see them? A glass of water?"  
  
She nodded slowly, before her head drooped to her chest, and she felt unable to bring it back up.  
  
"The fools! They drugged you!"  
  
"I can see we won't get anything done at all today. Why don't we let you get some more rest and sleep this off?"  
  
She didn't say anything, just moaned. She felt herself being lifted again, and then it was dark.  
  
The third time she woke she felt completely normal, if very confused. She couldn't remember anything at all, and was very startled when she heard someone walk in.  
  
"Are you feeling any better now?"  
  
"Better? Oh, yes, thank you. And you are?"  
  
"Erik. But, if I remember correctly, you called me Hr Opera Spøgelse."  
  
"What? I don't remember anything."  
  
"Ah, temporary amnesia. Often a symptom after one wakes up from being drugged."  
  
"Drugged?"  
  
"I'll explain it in a minute. Perhaps first you would like to get dressed in your real clothes?"  
  
Real clothes? She looked down. She wasn't wearing her dress, only a shift. She felt so violated.  
  
"I'm truly sorry, Mlle. I only removed them so that they could be cleaned. I figured that you would be more comfortable this way."  
  
Cleaned? She felt something being thrust into her arms. It was her dress. And it was damp. "May I have some privacy, monsieur, wherever you are?"  
  
"Certainly. Come out when you are ready." She heard footsteps walking away.  
  
Charlotte pulled on her dress. Her head ached, however, and she couldn't do up all the buttons. She was glad to see that she was still wearing all her undergarments. He had only removed her dress. Still, at the thought of it, she shuddered. This strange man, whom she had never seen, knew only his first name, removing her clothes while she was drugged? It was barbaric!  
  
"Monsieur?" She stepped out into a room lit with many candles.  
  
"I'll have to send you back soon. I'm terribly disappointed that we accomplished nothing."  
  
She looked at him. One half of his face was covered with a mask, how curious. She thought of asking him about it, but decided that it wouldn't be polite. "How awful. What do you mean about my being drugged?"  
  
"Well, Mlle, I greatly regret this, but I was afraid that you wouldn't want to come see me, so I gave the managers something to give you. They gave you too much, and you were quite ill, and seemed unable to think correctly."  
  
"You what? They what? I what? Did I do anything?"  
  
"You did nothing shameful other than be very sick on a boat ride, which was something you could not control. Therefore, I removed your dress so that it could be cleaned. I apologize if I frightened you."  
  
"N-no."  
  
"Really, Tikva, it wasn't my intention."  
  
She was about to say that it was nothing to worry about, but she stopped, and her mouth dropped open. "What did you call me, monsieur Erik?"  
  
"Tikva, it is your name isn't it?"  
  
At that moment, Charlotte realized something. Her necklace. She didn't remember seeing it. She began tearing at her collar. She didn't notice the fabric was ripping, only that she didn't see the thin chain anywhere. "How do you know? Where is it? I know you have it! Give it to me you thief!"  
  
"Give you what?"  
  
"You know!"  
  
"This?" He pulled out a necklace, her necklace and held it up. "You were moving around when you were unconscious and I didn't want you to strangle yourself, so I removed it. Don't worry, your secret is safe with me."  
  
She raced over to grab her necklace. He was standing there, holding it out for her. Her arm stretched out to grab it, but because she was so tired, and her head was in so much pain, that she missed. Falling forward, she reached out, her arms flailing about wildly. Finally, she connected with something, and held on for dear life. Most unfortunately, what she grabbed was his porcelain mask, and she tore it off before falling on the floor.  
  
A/N: Here you go. I've even translated the stuttering bits for ou all.  
  
"W-w-ho's there?" = Who's There?  
  
"Hr Opera S-s-s-pøgelse?"= Hr Opera Spøgelse=Mr. Opera Ghost [Danish]  
  
"G-g-goddag?"=Goddag?=Hello? [Danish]  
  
"T-tat-teh?" =Tatteh?=Father?[Yiddish{American Transliteration}]  
  
"Is ther an-an-yone her-e?"=Is there anyone here?  
  
"Who is C-C-C-Char-?"=Who is Charlotte?  
  
"My n-n-n-am is-n Ch-a-r."=My name isn't Charlotte.  
  
"Be-c-caus they a-a-r'n s'p-p-os t' k-k-no!"=Because they aren't supposed to know!  
  
"Shah. T-t-el no-on!"=Shah. Tell no one.=Quiet. Tell no one. [Shah=Quiet/Hush in Yiddish]  
  
"A lit-lit-little. I dun like b-b-oats."=A little. I don't like boats.  
  
"Wh-wh-why ar yo we-wear-ing tha- mask? I-i-is it a c-c-c-costu- ball?"=Why are you wearing that mask? Is it a costume ball?  
  
"B-b-bott? Wha- bott?"=Bottle? What bottle?  
  
Hope this helps. Maybe you learned some Danish or Yiddish. I did. 


	6. Chapitre Six

A/N: I'm sorry I didn't tell you all that I would be gone. I was at camp! And now, without further ado, Chapitre Six!  
  
br"I'm so sorry Reb Erik!" Charlotte, who was Tikva now, at least in this dark place under the Opera, straightened herself out on the floor and picked up his mask. "It wasn't my intention."  
  
br"Give me my mask." She stood up and held it to him, all the while looking away at what she was sure she didn't want to see. "Look at me, child."  
  
brShe moved her face up so that she was looking at him. Her mouth dropped open in a silent scream. It was so hideous. A face that would haunt her in nightmares. She started to back away from him. She didn't care about her necklace now.  
  
br"Stay where you are, and close your mouth please, it's highly unladylike."  
  
brHer mouth shut with a click. She stopped. She didn't know exactly why she was listening to him, but his voice was so hypnotic, and his grotesque disfiguration just made her keep staring.  
  
br"Would you like your necklace back, Mlle Tikva?"  
  
br"Y-y-yes please, Reb Erik."  
  
brHe held it out to her. "What does Reb mean, Mlle Tikva?"  
  
br"It means teacher."  
  
br"Ah. Tikva, I'm not going to hurt you." He moved toward her, making no effort to put his mask back on. "May I ask your last name. Perhaps you could formally introduce yourself."  
  
brTikva smiled slightly. It was all so odd. "My name is Tikva Maneshevitz. I lived in Denmark."  
  
br"Dear Tikva, may I ask why you decided to call yourself Charlotte DuBois?"  
  
br"Don't you already know? It's because I'm Jewish."  
  
br"You don't like being Jewish?"  
  
br"No."  
  
br"Then why did you assume a false name?"  
  
br"Because if I didn't, I would be hated."  
  
br"What is the reason you came to Paris, Mlle Maneshevitz?"  
  
br"So I could write a novel."  
  
br"Ah. Come here, Mlle Maneshevitz." She walked over to him. He still wasn't wearing the mask, but if she looked at him in a certain way his face was hid in shadow.  
  
br"Yes, Reb Erik."  
  
br"When you are here, Tikva, I will protect you. Because you could look at me and not faint. And while I know it unnerved you, soon you will grow to look past it. When you are here, Tikva, you can be Tikva, and no one will know."  
  
br"Yes, Reb Erik."  
  
brHe slid his mask back on. And slipped her necklace back around her neck. "There. I should take you back now, and then pen those managers an angry letter. What they did to you was not right."  
  
br"No, Reb Erik, it wasn't."  
  
br"Now, Tikva, because I will protect you, I ask you one thing in return. You give up your novel, and focus entirely on singing. Will you do that for me?"  
  
br"Yes, Reb Erik."  
  
br"I know that you don't like boats. However, it is the only way to get you back. I know this is a terrible thing to ask, but would you rather be chloroformed so you don't have to worry about being seasick, and you won't have to be worried about endless questions as to where I reside?"  
  
br"Yes, Reb Erik."  
  
br"Fine then. Stay here. I will be ready in but a moment."  
  
brHe left the room, and a few moments later, returned carrying in his arms a white handkerchief and a chair.  
  
br"You know it hurts me to do this." He said softly. "I don't want to be like them." He spat out the last word with distaste.  
  
br"Yes, Reb Erik."  
  
brHe gestured toward the chair. She sat down, carefully, spreading her skirts around her. They were still a bit wet. Especially on the corners. She reacher over and squeezed some water out of the hem.  
  
br"Sit still, please."  
  
brTikva stopped moving and sat very still. Her entire well-being in Paris stood in this man's hands. His thin, pale hands, which, when they were placed up by her face along with the chloroform, mingled with the drug, causing it to smell like death itself. 


	7. Chaptire Sept

A/N: For some reason chapitre six wasn't formatted. I'm praying that it doesn't happen here. I apologize for the inconvenience of chapitre six, and want you all to know that I tried REALLY hard to format it, but ff.net can be a real cantankerous pigeon when it wants to.  
  
br Her cheek was pushed far deep into the rich pile carpet of box five when she awoke. Her head cleared slowly, peeling back the blank white-ness from her brain, much like the fog rolled off the water in Copenhagen, slowly, but surely, until the sun could shine through. She missed the peaceful whiteness of moments before and longed to slide back into that deep rest. However, she heard someone yelling something, and footsteps, bounding up the stairs.  
  
br"Charlotte! Charlotte! Charlotte!"  
  
br Two conflicting thoughts simultaneously entered her mind. The first, a persistent, confused, aching "Who is Charlotte?" and a second, more calming and reassuring "I am Charlotte" a sign she was back in the Paris she knew. The Paris she had to fight so hard against. Strangely, she found that so ultimately refreshing and calming.  
  
br "Charlotte!" The voice was closer now. She was sprawled in such a position she could not see who was calling her name, but a few more moments of fog-clearing gave her the answer.  
  
br"Marc?" She asked weakly, her voice only just above a whisper.  
  
br"Charlotte! My-my-" Marc then uttered a long string of English words. Charlotte had not the slightest idea what they meant, but, judging by their sound and his tone of voice, they were not polite.  
  
brShe felt his arms lifting her up. 'Oy Vey!' she thought to herself, 'How many times am I going to lifted up and shlepped around like a sack of potatoes today?'  
  
brBeing carried around had lost its novelty. Instead of feeling like a princess in a fairy tale as Charlotte had always imagined being rescued would be like, she instead felt like a helpless child.  
  
brA carriage came quickly, and Marc placed Charlotte inside. The driver of the carriage looked frantically at Marc and asked, "Is she alright?"  
  
brCharlotte was about to open her mouth and say she would be quite fine, thank you, but Marc answered before her, his words loud, harsh, and alien.  
  
br"I don't know! Just hurry up, would you?"  
  
brHis hands rushed over her face, fanning her, touching her forehead. Charlotte was screaming inside that she was fine, she would be alright, but she felt so exhausted she couldn't even move her mouth enough to form the words. Her jaw fell slack and she breathed slowly through her open mouth, like an old woman who had given up on life.  
  
brMarc carried her, amazingly enough, up five flights of stairs to her apartment, which she shared with two other girls, both dancers. Marc, she now realised, was terribly strong.  
  
brJammes, one of her roommates, rushed over. "Charlotte! Marc, what's wrong with her?"  
  
br"I don't know! I just found her like this...in box five. She was just sprawled on the ground! There was a chair that had been tipped over. I think she had been placed in it, but it had fallen."  
  
br"Here, place her on the bed."  
  
brFlashes of memory jarred Charlotte. She remembered being dazed as she half-woke on the way to box five. It was dark. She saw the wings of the stage swim past her. Then a flash of white. Then she was sitting in a chair. She saw someone rush past her, and felt a breeze, then she and the chair were falling...falling....white  
  
brShe opened her eyes. She was on her bed, in her room. She smelled something familiar. She would have recognized that smell anywhere. Chicken soup! The scent brought back a pang of homesickness so gut-wrenching she curled up for a few moments, as if it were a stomach cramp. She remembered her mother cooking it every Sabbath since she had been small. But then another thought struck her. Someone was actually COOKING something! Right next to their apartment was a café, so while there was food in their apartment (there was a market across the street), it was rarely cooked. Charlotte sat up in bed, and looked out the open door to see Marc standing over a pot on the stove.  
  
br"You're awake! Good thing too, it's almost done!" Marc gave the pot one final stir, then grabbed a bowl from a shelf and ladled some into it. He picked up a spoon and walked into Charlotte's room. "Here." He thrust the warm bowl into her hands. He was about to pick up the spoon and feed her himself, but Charlotte decided she wasn't that helpless. She blew on her spoonful of soup before she tasted it. It was really quite good.  
  
brThe warmth of the soup spread down through her and warmed her from the inside out. She felt herself wake up, and she managed to speak.  
  
br"Thank you Marc."  
  
br"You're welcome. But, Charlotte-"  
  
br"Yes?"  
  
br"Did he..er...DO anything to you?"  
  
brCharlotte's eyes widened with surprise. "What?!"  
  
br"Charlotte, you were nearly unconscious when I found you, Meg Giry said she you almost passed out, you were gone for hours, your collar is torn and your clothing, for reasons beyond what I could ever imagine, is wet."  
  
brCharlotte thought for a moment. "I was nearly unconscious because of the..um..medicine I was given to keep me from being sick on the boat. My passing out with Meg Giry was because of the managers, my collar is torn..." She paused, struggling to think of something that would keep her secret safe. "Because I ripped it when I was having a nightmare because of what the managers gave me, and my clothing is wet because I fell in the water."  
  
brShe didn't know why she lied about her clothing being wet. For some reason, she didn't want to tell Marc the truth. It wasn't because she would have been embarrassed, she just didn't want Marc to know about Erik, and how he had cleaned them for her. She wanted to keep him, safe in her memory. Pure.  
  
brMarc looked at her for a long time before finally standing up to go. His face was grave, and Charlotte knew he didn't believe her. "I don't know, Charlotte. Paris isn't always the safest city. Men will do strange things when beautiful women, like you, are asleep." But the way he spat out the words "beautiful women" Charlotte knew it wasn't a compliment.  
  
A/N: Be a dearie and read and review! I'm going on vacation for a week right after this chapter gets up, so I won't be able to respond to your love notes/flames. Sorry! 


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